Intermezzo
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: He's never let anyone, let alone a woman, shave him before. Sure, he's fantasized about it, but one viewing of 'The Color Purple' as a young man had struck terror into him and he'd concluded one could never be sure what a woman was thinking.'


He stamps his feet before unlocking the door, removing the last of the snow sticking to his boots. It's already dark when he returns home and enters the house; even at this early hour of winter, he knows she's already in bed, and asleep. This morning, at the diner, she mentioned an early-morning event at the Dragonfly...for some group of lawyers? Or was it accountants? She'd be needing to get to bed early, she casually mentioned as she seductively leaned over the diner counter to kiss him.

There was a time when such a comment would have inspired him to come home earlier, after anticipating the evening all day. Cesar and Lane would have snickered all afternoon, knowing full-well why their boss was so antsy and distracted. And when he got back to the house, he and Lorelai would have sex, and it would be quick and perfunctory (because of her upcoming early morning) but would hit the spot. Afterward, she would smirk at him, telling him that she was reserving something more special for him for their next time, when sleep wasn't so pressing to her professional life. And he would smirk right back, telling her that the best sleep-aid medicine he knew for her was...well...a session of invigorating loving with him. Lorelai would respond with a mock-shocked "No" and vehemently deny that she often fell deeply asleep after sex. And he would chuckle, reminding her to go to the bathroom and pee before falling asleep, then once she was back, draw the covers up to her chin and stroke her hair as she fell asleep as predicted.

But not tonight. Not anymore.

Since Thanksgiving, guilt over not telling her about April has subtly frayed away at the edges of the fabric of his love for her. Oh, the love is still there, desperately so, but it is worn and has acquired a different texture. One he no longer feels comfortable with.

Wearily, he locks the door and surveys their home. He briefly wonders what's going to happen to the mortgage and home improvement loans they jointly took out for the renovation when she leaves him once he tells her about his kid. He can't let her shoulder that burden herself, he thinks. Nope, he'll have to put off telling her until he's figured out some sort of fair financial arrangement. Hell, he'll just give her the money somehow. It doesn't occur to him that she just might stick around; everyone always leaves him.

A smile briefly crosses his face as he notices that she's thoughtfully left some strategically located lights on for him, but not too many--he's at least drummed that small bit of ecological awareness into her. He drops his keys in his pocket, then removes his jacket and hangs it, before turning off the lights and heading upstairs.

As he enters the open doors to their room, the dog's ears perk up and he comes padding out into the hall, as he does every night before they go to sleep. He ruffles the scruff of the dog's neck as he takes up residence in the hall. It's the changing of the guard, Luke thinks, as he gazes over at the bed.

Her sleeping form is curled up on her side of the bed, facing his side, one hand peeking over the edge of the white of the comforter, seemingly placed on his spot. The calm peacefulness of her sleeping face belies the vivaciousness she exudes during the day. He shakes his head; he's been one lucky sonofabitch, he thinks. To know a person for almost a decade and still have his breath hitch when he sees her. And now that he's known her intimately for over a year, he also knows that the public aspect of her being is a front. The part she reserves for those she loves is so much more than he'd ever imagined, and the part she reserves for her most intimate of relationships is so sexy, so loving, so giving, and so very unlike her public flirtatiousness, that it continues to hit him like a Mack truck.

He walks over, close to her, and fingers her hair as he thinks about their private life. She's so incredibly generous, he recalls. In so many ways. A flash of ire grips him as he remembers when she told him about how the workers saw her naked. He'd been gripped by jealousy for days. Like most men, he was sexually possessive of his woman. Maybe that's why he disliked Christopher so much. He was one of the few who'd gone all the way with her, who shared the same experience with him. The construction guys all thought, like he used to, that she was a good time in the sack, that he was the current lucky guy to have her and he knew they all wanted her. Oh, they made sure they acknowledged he was the alpha male on the job, and with respect to her, but to a man they'd let him know that they approved of what they'd seen.

If only they knew how wrong, how superficial, they were in their assessment of her. He'd certainly learned by now! He'd experienced the generous way she gave of herself to him, and realized that what he'd thought were intimate encounters and relationships in his life were really only acts of sex up to that point. Yes, he grimaced, even his marriage. Actually, especially his marriage. You don't get married thinking sex will be sterile and mechanical, but that was his life with Nicole. Not that it was entirely her fault; he now realized that it was unfair to marry someone when you loved someone else.

Lorelai was another matter.

From the get-go, her generosity of self, and the surprising way that she was so considerate in private, surprised and delighted him. She'd confessed, about that first night after Sniffy's, that she'd never been more scared of anything, except of course of having Rory, when he'd proclaimed that he was "all in." She'd never had someone make that commitment to her before actually doing the deed, she'd said. And it scared her to no end. Her honesty made him realize that he was changing too, because of her. That she was the woman who taught him about making love. And, he realized, her example brought out something in him that hadn't been there before. Somehow, some way, he'd become a better person by following her lead, without even realizing it. But evidently, it wasn't enough when it came to dealing with the kid.

Not to say that life behind the closed bedroom door was all kum-ba-yah and spiritual; she most definitely was a good time in the sack. But she'd shown him and taught him so much more. About giving. About being in a relationship. About doing things for someone. There wasn't anything he couldn't ask her to do in bed, he acknowledged. Sure, sometimes she'd ask him if she could think about something for a day or so, but in the end, somehow he always felt that he was the one who'd received pleasure, who'd been loved. Maybe she is the embodiment of 'you get as good as you give,' he thinks with a chuckle, as he gently adjusts the comforter around her shoulders.

Maybe that is why he just can't ruin it for her, for them, by telling her.

She's looked so much younger and been so much happier since Rory and she reconciled, he acknowledges. Finally feeling free enough to concentrate on the wedding, he knows she's found "the dress" and that she's tried it on quite a few times, if all the times she's barricaded the bedroom door and screamed with girlie indignation is any indication. She clearly cannot wait to be married, and he's the lucky sonofabitch who's gonna marry her, and then the guilt returns to niggle at the edges of his mind.

He's going to be the one to ruin it all.

But not now.

Luke grabs some clean clothes to wear to bed and heads into their bathroom. He smiles wryly as he surveys the two sinks. His area: sparsely accessorized, neat. Her area: a haphazard collection of cosmetic concoctions that he knows she does not really need, enough to tart up an off-Broadway chorus line, he thinks. Some of the drawers on her side, as is typical, remain open, and he reaches over to push the top one closed.

And there it is, in the drawer, mocking him: the fertility god. Supposedly, one of Lorelai's professional acquaintances had problems conceiving a kid, and the husband brought back some sort of fat little fertility idol from Hong Kong. The friend had rubbed its belly every night, placing the idol on her nightstand, and somehow got pregnant. She then passed it on to another married friend, and apparently it had done its thing, and so it made the rounds until someone found out that Lorelai was engaged.

On one of those sunshine-bright Stars Hollow winter days, she brought it into the diner, waving it in front of everyone. She wildly proclaimed that once they tied the knot, she was going to start working on those kids he was worried about when she was mulling the Durham Group's offer, and that this little guy would help make sure everything was A-OK.

Hah, he thought. I sure won't need it. My guys obviously are fine.

He'd played along with her. If it hadn't been for his kid, he would have secretly been thrilled with her enthusiasm and public acknowledgement that she, the brightest star in Stars Hollow, was planning to procreate with someone as drab and surly as him. Sometimes, the thought of her swollen with his child made him weak-kneed, and until he found out about the kid he never knew, he'd sometimes fantasize about how great it would be to go bareback while they were trying. But the day she came in with the statue, he'd quickly hushed her, with the sufficient intermittent "ah jeez" and eye roll to deflect any suspicion on her part. As usual, she took his reticence as public shyness. Later, in private, she informed him that she'd put the little statue away in a drawer until they were married, but that it would definitely be getting a hopefully very short workout, complete with belly rub, starting with the wedding night. And she'd then pass it on to someone else, hey what about Lulu?

Closing the drawer, he sighs and surveys his face in the mirror. Not looking good there, buddy, starting to show your age, he thinks, as he runs a hand over his stubble. How long has it been since he's shaved? Gotta be what, four, five days? And when did all the gray start appearing around the edges of his face? He could swear it had not been there during the summer.

Man, he's a lucky guy. Lorelai was so great, never nagging him about this aspect of his grooming. Just occasionally reminding him ahead of time that a certain social occasion might require a more professional look. Yah, it had been a while, so he might as well shave tonight. That way, when he got to work in the morning, the stubble'd be starting to grow back.

So he reaches for his shaving cream and razor, checking the blade before turning on the tap and splashing his face with warm water.

"Mmmm."

He jumps, as he hears Lorelai murmur and feels her arms snake around his waist, her warm cheek pressed against his bare back.

"Jeez, Lorelai," he snarls at her.

Immediately, the arms loosen, the cheek withdraws. "Sorry," she sleepily murmurs.

"Aw, sorry," he quickly rectifies, "I was just starting to shave."

"Sorry," she reiterates, eyes now open. She reaches up and strokes his jawline, then presses a kiss against his lips as she whispers, "Yah, it's about time."

She then surprises him.

"Let me," she says, and before he can react, grabs the shaving cream out of his hand and the razor from the side of the sink.

"Lorelai..." he protests.

He's never let anyone, let alone a woman, shave him before. Sure, he's fantasized about it, but one viewing of "The Color Purple" as a young man had struck terror into him and he'd concluded one could never be sure what a woman was thinking while wielding a razor against one's throat.

"Relax," Lorelai purrs.

Jeez, she is acting like she's done this before.

"You look so tired, babe," she whispers. "Just relax."

He starts to protest.

"Uh uh. Don't worry, I know how to do this. Legs, underarms?"

He begins to protest in reply, but she continues. "And hello, bikini area? Definitely more tricky than a face!"

She pushes to turn him to face away from the mirror, and he finds himself with his ass perched against the counter between their sink, with Lorelai already lathering the left side of his face.

She giggles. "Too bad you don't use whipped cream to do this!" she says as she wiggles her shaving-cream-covered index finger at him, before reaching over to her sink to rinse it off.

He doesn't know if this shaving thing is a good idea. She's so close to him, so enticing, even rumpled by sleep and in her typical sleep attire.

She knows what he's thinking. "Just pretend you're an old grandpa and I'm an old grandma."

Well, there's a problem, because he knows she'll be just as enticing then as now to him. Jeez, he really does have it bad for her. He remembers a time when he'd rather have killed himself than look at a woman over thirty. What was he then, fourteen?

And she's ready. To shave him. He tries not to wince as the first stroke rasps over his beard. But to his surprise, she handles the razor deftly, and swiftly. He might, he thinks, actually relax and closes his eyes. And before he knows it, she's methodically done the left side of his face.

She stops for a second and surveys her work, grabbing a towel to dab off any residue. Smiling, she takes a step back, then reaches out and touches the half of his face that she's dispatched with.

"Mmmm," she purrs, as she lingeringly drags her fingers across his smoothness. Her other hand comes up and traces the outline of the other side of his face. She purrs again, as she leans in to kiss him on the lips, rubs one cheek against the smooth side of his face, then turns to rub the other against the stubbled side. "Don't know which I love more," she says, as she steps back, cradling both sides in her hands.

They stand there for what seems a long while, and he's faced with a dilemma. He needs to shave the other side of his face. But he wants her too. And she's standing there, so warm and rumpled and inviting, and all he wants to do is get her naked in the warmth of the bathroom, and rub first one side of his face, then the other, and then the smooth side again, all over her body, in every place. Imagining her reaction, his body reacts, and he sees her smirk.

"Come on, let me finish," he hears her say. "You look tired, Hon, and I have to get up early tomorrow."

He gently takes her wrist, removes the razor from her hand, places it on the counter, and places a quick kiss on her pulse-point. "I'll take a rain check," he whispers, "I woke you up and I'm sorry. Why don't you go back to bed and I'll be there soon..."

"'Kay, Hon," she yawns, and takes his face in her hands as if she's holding her whole world there. "Goodnight," she says amidst a deep kiss, as he winds his fingers through her hair.

"Be right there," he replies, "to tuck you in."

"Mmmm," he hears her sleepily reply.

He quickly dispatches with the rest of his face, brushes his teeth and finishes getting ready for bed.

In their room, he stops at the foot of their bed and takes another moment to just watch her there, alone. The way she's soon going to want to be, once he tells her, he thinks.

She's already back asleep, a happy smile on her face. He hears the clink-clink of the dog's collar from outside the door.

A home. A beautiful woman. A dog. All should be good.

But he's got a secret. 


End file.
